Page 22 of Moonlit Desires

Lyra hadn't expected this momentary candor, this glimpse beneath the warrior's mask. "Is that why we're meeting before anyone else is awake? To avoid the performance?"

Kael nods once, sharply. "In part. But more practically, because you need to learn, and learning requires making mistakes. The Court must never see their queen falter."

Queen. The word still sits uneasily on her shoulders, a garment sized for someone else. "I haven't agreed to take the throne," she reminds him.

"No," he acknowledges. "But the mark on your back and the blood in your veins have already decided for you. Whether you sit on the throne or not, you are Ella Moonshadow's daughter, and that makes you a target."

He moves to the edge of the circular pattern inlaid in the stone, gesturing for her to join him. As she approaches, he continues, his voice taking on the cadence of instruction.

"The fae fight differently than humans," he says. "We have more strength, more speed, and for most of us, magic that can enhance both. But we also have weaknesses—patterns we follow, traditions we cannot break, vulnerabilities specific to our bloodlines."

Lyra steps onto the circle, feeling a subtle vibration through the soles of her feet as she crosses the boundary. The mark on her back warms in response, a now-familiar sensation that still unsettles her.

"What are my weaknesses?" she asks, meeting his gaze directly.

"That's what we're here to discover," Kael replies, his expression unreadable. "And then to guard against."

He unhooks the practice swords from his belt, holding one out to her, hilt first. The wooden weapon is lighter than it looks, balanced differently than the kitchen knives she occasionallywielded in self-defense back in Lythven. The grip is wrapped in leather worn smooth by countless hands before hers.

"Three centuries ago," Kael says, "I swore an oath to protect you with my life. Today, I begin teaching you to protect yourself."

Something in his tone—a gravity that goes beyond mere instruction—makes Lyra look up sharply. "You make it sound like you're expecting to fail."

His blue eyes hold hers, unflinching. "A warrior prepares for every possibility. Even his own death."

The words hang in the air between them, heavy with implication. Before she can respond, Kael steps back, raising his practice sword in a formal salute.

"First position," he commands, voice crisp with authority. "Feet shoulder-width apart, dominant hand gripping the hilt, other hand balanced at your side."

Lyra mimics his stance, feeling awkward and exposed in the center of the ancient circle. The sword trembles slightly in her grip, betraying her nervousness.

"Your body remembers more than your mind," Kael says, circling her slowly. "Your mother was one of the finest swordswomen the Court has ever known. That skill is in your blood, waiting to be awakened."

"I think my blood's still half-asleep, then," Lyra mutters, adjusting her grip as the wooden hilt threatens to slip from her sweating palm.

The ghost of a smile touches Kael's lips again. "We'll see." He raises his own sword, the motion fluid and precise. "Now, defend yourself."

His first strike comes without further warning—not full speed, she can tell, but fast enough that she barely brings her sword up in time to block. The impact jars her arm to the shoulder, butshe holds her ground, instinct guiding her feet into a more stable position.

"Good," Kael says, already moving for a second strike. "Again."

Their wooden blades meet with a hollow crack that echoes across the courtyard. Behind them, the sun breaches the horizon at last, flooding the stone circle with golden light that catches on the silver inlay, momentarily blinding. In that split second of illumination, with the dawn at her back and the ancient warrior before her, Lyra feels something shift in her chest—not quite belonging, but perhaps the first fragile seed of it.

The training has begun.

Chapter six

Kael'sControl

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The wooden sword feels foreign in Lyra's grip, its weight unevenly distributed compared to the bar mallet she's accustomed to wielding. She adjusts her fingers around the worn leather handle, trying to mimic Kael's stance as the early morning light crawls across the flagstones. Her muscles protest from the first exchange, still vibrating from the impact of his blade against hers, but she refuses to show weakness in the warrior's presence.

"Again," Kael commands, circling her with predatory grace. His next strike comes faster, catching her unprepared. The wooden blade slides past her guard, stopping just short of her ribs. "Dead," he pronounces flatly.

Lyra exhales through gritted teeth. "You didn't give me time to reset."

"Your enemies won't either." Kael steps back, lowering his sword. "You're thinking too much. Watching my weapon insteadof my body. The sword is merely an extension – the true movement begins in the core."

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